


Mindraker (WIP)

by Cesare



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:50:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cesare/pseuds/Cesare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Please note, WORK IN PROGRESS!</p><p>X-Men: First Class, meet Casino Royale (the Daniel Craig & Eva Green version.) I'm pretty sure you two will get along famously.</p><p>Started as a kinkmeme fill to the prompt "<a href="http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/806.html?thread=543270#t543270">Lensherr. Erik Lensherr.</a> With Charles as a sort of Bond girl except without cross-dressing. Because Erik would totally be the deadliest, manliest gay Bond agent ever."</p><p>Owes a debt of inspiration to StarRose's fantastic <a href="http://starrose-amv.livejournal.com/14008.html">XMFC/Casino Royale Trailer</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's a chartered plane, and Erik wouldn't be much of an agent if he didn't know exactly how many people were aboard, who they are, why they're here and where each of them is.

He wouldn't be much of an agent if he weren't ready for anything. Under the table, he flexes his fist, the knuckles still sore from his... _altercation_... with a would-be bomber at the Miami International Airport.

And yet, even though Erik's acquainted himself with the dossiers, reviewed the photos, glimpsed the man earlier, he's a little surprised when Charles Xavier approaches him.

The dining area is set up like a cozy booth in a restaurant, with menus, linen, even candlelight, the illusion pierced only the oval windows looking down on the world thirty thousand feet below. Not, of course, that Erik could ever forget that he's inside a metal tube hurtling through the clouds. There's almost nowhere he could possibly feel safer.

Xavier sits across from him uninvited and smiles. Either he's sure of his welcome or he wants to impress upon Erik that he's here whether Erik wills it or not.

"I'm the money," he says, placing the steel suitcase next to the table.

"Every penny of it," Erik answers, taking in the casual but immaculate grooming and the strangely appealing, boyish good looks. "I suppose that makes me the muscle."

Xavier gives him a similar once-over and raises an eyebrow. "Every pound of it."

A riposte. So he's here to make a point, not to build a bridge. All the better. "I hope you're as quick at cards, Mr. Xavier."

"I really think you can call me Charles. We're going to be working together rather closely, after all." Xavier picks up the menu. "What looks good?" He glances at Erik from under his lashes, almost mockingly coy.

Erik's surprised again by the open flirtation, but it adds up a moment later. There are few better ways for a man to ensure he's underestimated. Erik has used the same tactic once or twice himself. Of course, in his case, it's easy; it has the benefit of being true.

"I'm sure you'll find something to suit your taste on the menu," Erik responds, leaning just a little on the last three words. "Mr. Xavier."

Xavier sheds his gamin smile for something a little more knowing. "I take it you don't care much for cards, Mr. Lehnsherr."

"I've been known to play. I prefer chess."

"Oh, excellent," Xavier's smile appears genuine this time, wide enough to crinkle his eyes and show lines around his mouth, betraying his age as most likely closer to thirty than twenty. "Perhaps you'll humour me with a game then. It's been ages since I played."

"I assume you've used the time to hone your skills at baccarat. I suppose you've given some thought to the fact that if you lose this game, your government will have directly financed terrorism."

Xavier looks past Erik to the porter and hands the man the menu. "The lamb, please. Mr. Lehnsherr?"

"I'll have the quail," says Erik. "I was hoping you could tell me more about this-- baccarat chemin-de-fer, is it? I may only be the muscle, but I can better fulfill my mission to protect you...r government's money," he draws out, and Xavier tips his head in acknowledgment, "if I have a clearer idea of the game."

Message sent, then. Erik's assignment is to safeguard the five million pounds entrusted to Xavier, money that will buy Xavier's stake to play baccarat against the arms financier known as Le Chiffre.

If Erik is called upon to protect Xavier as well, he'll give it his utmost. But if Xavier has to be sacrificed... it's not just a matter of the money, but whose hands will receive it and the destruction they can wreak with it, if this plan should fail.

Xavier must bankrupt Le Chiffre at the baccarat table, leaving the financier without the capital he needs to complete his current arms deals. Le Chiffre must have no choice but to turn himself in to MI6 to seek protection from his customers. MI6 needs what Le Chiffre knows, the whereabouts of the terrorist groups he supplies.

Erik needs what Le Chiffre knows, the whereabouts of a man who now calls himself Sebastian Shaw.

He'll sacrifice Xavier _and_ the money for that, if he has to. He's not sure what he wouldn't forsake, to get his hands on Shaw.

He's none too happy that MI6 sees fit to risk this opportunity on a game of cards.

"Have you ever played?" Xavier asks, and he launches into an explanation of the game, clearly relishing the role of instructor. He's infuriating in his condescension, but he also takes pains to plumb Erik's understanding, and tailors his tutelage accordingly.

By the end of the meal, Erik is satisfied that Xavier truly knows the rules of the game inside and out, well enough to communicate them even to the novice Erik pretends to be.

Knowing the rules doesn't mean he can win, though. And Xavier has to win.

"You're telling me it's all a matter of probability and odds?" Erik tastes his dessert wine. "I was worried there was some chance involved."

"Only if you assume the player with the better hand wins," Xavier allows some of his smugness to show, not seeming to realize that Erik picked up on his self-satisfaction half an hour ago.

"So that would be what you call bluffing."

"You've heard the term," says Xavier dryly. "Then you'll also know that in gambling, you never play your hand. You play the man across from you."

Missed a chance for a double entendre, there. He must have given up on getting that particular kind of rise out of Erik.

"And you're good at reading people?" Erik asks.

"Yes, I am. Which is why I've been able to detect an undercurrent of sarcasm in your voice," Charles says, smiling again. Erik doesn't like that the man thinks he can afford to be so friendly. "You don't think this is a very good plan, do you."

"So there is a plan. I was under the impression we were risking millions of dollars and hundreds of lives on a game of luck," says Erik. "What else can you surmise, Mr. Xavier?"

"About you, Mr. Lehnsherr?" Xavier settles back, meeting Erik's eyes. "Well, your past is a problem. Your experiences in the war drive you, but you worry you might be called back if your superiors knew that you had a personal stake in this mission."

"One could easily infer that from my background. I presume you read my file." It's no secret that Erik isn't British. Just another refugee that the Crown is willing to make use of.

"Yes. But your file couldn't tell me that you're not just a survivor out to bring ex-Nazis to justice. You're searching for someone specific, aren't you?" Xavier asks, and Erik restrains himself, though every instinct is howling to bristle, to attack.

Xavier leans forward, scenting blood. "You've been selecting your assignments with care, closing in on someone, and this, now, Le Chiffre, could likely be the last step before you find him. No wonder you resent being saddled with a partner."

Erik absorbs it like the blow it is.

"All right," he says, and makes certain to visibly weigh Xavier with a glance, as if he hasn't been taking his measure throughout the meal. "By the cut of your suit, you went to Oxford or wherever, and actually think human beings dress like that. You're comfortable in it; I'd say you come from money. There's never been any real hardship in your life, so you've never had cause to be anything but a patriot. When they recruited you for MI6, you signed up at once, and you really believe you're doing the right thing for your country. Possibly you're even arrogant enough to think of it in terms of making the world a better place."

He pauses to take in Xavier's expression and smiles. "Oh, you do, don't you. I like this 'reading people' thing." He finishes his wine. "Something other than idealism must have motivated you, though, to give up your easy life for something as dangerous as this. You must have been aware that you'd always be at risk, no matter what choices you made. Whether because you have certain supernormal abilities, or because of your unorthodox choice of bed partners."

He'd place a not inconsiderable bet that Xavier hides in plain sight, pretending he's only pretending interest in men. And while there's nothing in Xavier's file to indicate that he has any special talents like Erik himself possesses, there's no indication of any such thing in Erik's file either.

Le Chiffre is too important a catch to leave to the luck of the draw. Xavier must have some gift that will either aid him at the baccarat table, or render the game irrelevant; Erik's certain of it.

Erik will give Xavier this, though; he has a very credible poker face. After that first slight widening of the eyes, he's given nothing away, not a twitch.

"Now, having just met you, I wouldn't go so far as to say you're a patronizing jackass," Erik goes on.

"You're too kind," Xavier replies, regrouping.

"But according to your file, you're something of a specialist. It wouldn't be difficult to imagine that you consider yourself a bit morally superior to the 'muscle', the agents who get their hands dirty. You pride yourself that you don't have a double-0 number, that you don't _need_ a license to kill. But like everyone else in this business, Mr. Xavier," Erik tells him, "all that means is that you haven't needed to kill anybody _yet."_

The man is definitely nearer to thirty. With the charm shaken out of him, so much is clearer.

"How was your lamb?" Erik asks.

"Skewered," Xavier answers. "One sympathizes."

"You know," Erik stands, "I think I will call you Charles after all, if I may."

"Certainly, Mr. Lehnsherr," Charles says, respectful now, even wary. Much better.

Erik does not extend the reciprocal invitation. He takes up the steel suitcase and leaves for the sleeping cabin. "Good evening, then, Charles."

"Good evening."


	2. Chapter 2

Erik tests his supposition about Charles after they land, while Charles enquires charmingly after their car.

As their contact holds out the keys, Erik fills his mind as forcefully as he can with an image of grabbing Charles around the throat and pinning him to the bonnet of the car, drawing his gun and lodging the barrel under the other man's chin, pulling the trigger. He doesn't have to imagine what it would feel like, the kick of the weapon and the spray of dark blood.

Charles thanks their contact politely and shakes his hand. He turns to Erik. "Do you prefer to drive?"

"Yes," Erik takes the keys, brushing Charles's hand and thinking of strangling him, how Charles would claw at Erik's killing grip, how his face would go an alarming, sickening purple and then cyanotic blue. He thinks of twisting. "If you don't mind?"

"Not at all. I'll be glad of the chance to enjoy the view," Charles answers, his face as clear as morning dew, fresh in the glow of early morning sunlight.

Erik glances into the car, a gleaming Citroën DS, and makes a face. "On second thought, can I trouble you to drive? I can't stand automatics."

Charles laughs. "Of course," he receives the keys again with a smile that doesn't waver at all when Erik thinks of closing his hand around the keyring and punching the roughly serrated key into Charles's gut, ripping upward in a gush of wet warmth.

They settle into the car and Charles diligently checks his mirrors and fastens his safety belt before pulling out. Erik considers. He's sure Charles must have a supernormal ability, and he's made a mental list of talents that would be helpful in a card game.

By far the most powerful and advantageous would be mind-reading, of course, and Erik had nearly convinced himself that was it, but his most violent thoughts seem to have gone completely undetected.

Possibly Charles can see through solid objects, then, so that he can know the other players' cards. Or perhaps he can't read thoughts, but can see through another person's eyes.

For all Erik knows, he has the power to smell the difference between each card; Erik will just have to reach over and yank the steering wheel toward him as hard as he can, sending the Citroën into a deadly spin and hurtling them off the right side of the road as they approach the seaside cliff, tumbling in a crash of shattered glass and twisted metal--

The car sways very slightly to the left.

Erik smirks.

Charles corrects his grip on the steering wheel and exhales in a huff of annoyance. "Oh, well done, Mr. Lehnsherr, congratulations."

"And to you. I noticed last night you have a good poker face, but your composure is uncanny," Erik compliments.

"Practice," Charles says. "Don't do that again. You've endangered us enough already with your towering need to prove yourself right."

"Why didn't they tell me about your ability?" Erik asks, keeping his voice conversational and pleasant despite his urge to force the answers out, at knifepoint if need be. "Are you meant to spy on me as well as Le Chiffre?"

"No," Charles says irritably. "For God's sake, if you only thought things through sensibly at the speed that you race to conclusions out of paranoia--"

"Why this farce with the baccarat game?" Erik demands. "You could just read Le Chiffre's mind. Why are we bothering with the pretense of bringing him in when you could learn everything we need to know in a few moments?"

"Excellent question," says Charles pedantically. "Why do you suppose?"

"Either MI6 doesn't know about your talent, which seems unlikely, or there's some reason you can't use it. Because Le Chiffre is immune, or telepathic himself?"

"Close," says Charles. "Le Chiffre has a telepath with him. In fact, she's an associate of your friend Sebastian Shaw--" the car drifts again for just a moment until Charles steadies himself and darts a look at Erik. "I'm sorry."

"Save it," Erik tells him shortly, suppressing his memories of Shaw. "The telepath; Emma Frost, I assume, the blonde who's been accompanying Le Chiffre of late."

"Yes. I believe Shaw was just another of Le Chiffre's customers until recently. But then Le Chiffre shorted Skyfleet stock, and attempted to bomb their S570 prototype--" Charles glances over, and Erik realizes he must have projected his burst of grim pride. "That was you? You stopped the bombing." He returns his attention to the road. "Impressive."

"I'm the muscle; that's my job."

"I'd like to point out that I never actually called you that," says Charles. "You're angry with me over a label that you affixed to yourself."

"Stay out of my head."

A smile plays at the corners of Charles's mouth. "Mr. Lehnsherr, I'm beginning to get the impression that you don't care for me."

"I just told you to stay out of my head."

"Gladly," says Charles. "Le Chiffre lost fifty million dollars when you stopped that bombing. He'd bet against Skyfleet stock, but of course, it didn't fall. You've put him in a desperate position. Perhaps he went to Shaw for help or possibly Shaw's telepath read Le Chiffre's mind, but I believe Shaw learned of Le Chiffre's plan for the baccarat game and saw the opportunity to acquire a great deal of money and then use Le Chiffre's connections to buy an arsenal."

"And of course, MI6 chose not to brief me of any of this."

"The less you knew, the better," Charles tells him, "considering that they have a telepath on their side. I'll have enough trouble blocking her from reading me without realizing what I am; now I'll have to shield you as well. Thanks ever so much for that."

The rest of the drive passes in silence.

*

Their entry to the baccarat game has been arranged on short notice, so they aren't quite equipped for the task. Charles drives them to the rendezvous, and yields the driver's seat to an agent in a chauffeur's uniform.

Erik gets out as well, stretching his legs, the steel suitcase in hand. Pretense won't work on Charles, but fortunately Erik doesn't need to fake distraction, only indulge it. He watches Charles speaking to another agent, going over their supplies perhaps as the suitcases are brought out, not important. Erik focuses on how sleek and neat Charles looks in his suit, imagining his body slim and lithe underneath it. His build is slight, but there are hints of strength in his square hands and schooled posture.

Charles of course has an attractive face, youthful despite the start of lines around his mouth. A pale complexion, complete with a scatter of freckles. Eyes strikingly blue, lips an almost too vivid pink. Altogether he's very nearly too pretty, but there's an unmistakably masculine shape to the bones of his face, the vault of his brow, the strong straight nose. His hair is thick and wavy, parted and tamed back away from his face; Erik could sink his fingers through and find purchase, tip Charles's head back, direct him by it. He imagines fucking Charles to ruin, til sweat streams over pale skin and his damp hair falls into dazed blue eyes and he pants openly, his mouth an even deeper, punished red.

Despite Charles's excellent poker face, Erik can tell when it all gets too much for Charles and he shuts Erik's thoughts out. His eyes and mouth show nothing, but the V of the prominent muscles of his neck suddenly relaxes.

At last the porters finish loading luggage with appropriate clothes and accouterments into the boot of the car, and one supplies Erik with a file folder.

Once Charles joins Erik in the backseat, they resume their journey. He cocks his head at the papers in Erik's hand. "What did he give you?"

"Just last-minute details," says Erik, flipping through the pages. "We're sharing a suite. Old school chums, it seems. Quite possibly lovers as well."

Charles's lips quirk. "Do you usually leave it to porters to tell you this sort of thing?"

"Why not?" Erik meets his eyes. "I generally find porters to be quite reliable."

He's already becoming familiar with the way Charles's mouth draws up almost primly when he stifles a smile.

"According to this, you're Mr. Arlington Beech, a professional gambler, and I'm Mr. Steven Broadchest--"

"Oh, you are not," says Charles, trying to see.

Erik holds the sheaf of paper out of reach. "You'll just have to trust me on that."

"No," Charles reminds him, "I don't."

"No, I suppose not." Erik glances at Charles's throat and thinks of licking him there, watches the tiny flex of reaction and concentrates on scraping lightly with his teeth, then looks back to the page. "We've been traveling companions for some time, and it looks as though perhaps I'm a bit of a moocher, hence the shared suite."

"But to keep up appearances for polite society, of course, it will be a two bedroom suite," Charles answers firmly.

"I hate it when society comes between us."

"Society and a securely locked door. Am I going to have a problem with you, Mr. Lehnsherr?" He does Erik the courtesy of speaking with disbelief in his tone, as though he can scarcely believe he has to ask.

"Don't worry," says Erik, handing the file to Charles, "you're not my type."

Charles manages to shift his incredulous reaction into something closer to insulted. "Smart?" he asks. Not so courteous, that.

Erik smiles. "Single."

*

The hotel adjoining the Casino Royale is, predictably, gorgeous and staggeringly sumptuous and completely boring to Erik. He's been trained to fit in at places like this, among the sort of people who complain that their brie isn't runny enough. But Erik much prefers the honest brutality of a gun in his hand to the less direct sort of intimidation and control that this much money represents.

"Welcome to the Hotel Splendide," says the desk clerk. "Your name, sir?"

Erik opens his mouth, but Charles is already saying, "Charles Xavier. You'll find the reservation under 'Beech', I believe." He ignores Erik's fierce glare, perfectly calm.

The clerk slips the paperwork across the marble to him. "Welcome, Mr. Xavier," and as he signs, "I'll have your bags sent right up."

"Very funny," Erik fumes as they head to the lift.

"If Le Chiffre is as well-connected as all that, he knows who I am and why I'm here," says Charles, almost carelessly. "And he's decided to play me anyway. He's either desperate or he's overly confident, but either way, that tells me something about him. All he gets in return is a name he already has. And he'll be wondering why I gave it, instead of focusing on his cards."

"But I'm reliably informed he won't be playing his cards," says Erik. "He'll be playing the man across from him. And now he knows something about you. He knows you're arrogant."

Erik steps into the lift and holds himself and the steel briefcase forbiddingly, halting Charles before he can enter. "Wait for the next one. I'm here to protect Her Majesty's investment. You can take your chances."


End file.
